"Here." Daryl glanced down at Carol's outstretched hand for half a second, but that was all it took. Carol watched as his eyes darkened and his head snapped back.

"Don't want it."

Carol nudged her hand forward with more urgency. "Yes, you do. That's why you grabbed it in the first place." Nothing. "My seeing it doesn't change a thing."

Daryl grunted, and did not take the book. Treating Survivors of Child Abuse: Psychotherapy for the Interrupted Life. The book was heavy in her hands and if she opened it, she imagined she'd find the spine rather stiff. It didn't look like it had been used much, even if it had been at a battered women's shelter. Carol understood that. She understood the shame, how difficult it was just to drag yourself into the building, let alone meet the eyes of anyone surrounding you, or admit to yourself why you were there in the first place. That book, in that building…She huffed. What a joke.

Still…She looked back up, at the beat-up man kneeling on the ground in front of her. She wondered if it was as obvious to strangers as it was to her, what life had done to him even before the Turn to make him who he was, and who he is, and who he was trying to leave behind. Maybe not. Maybe like sought after like, and her own past was what laid his bare before her.

She tried again. "Daryl, please… Don't be stubborn. Just take it." He didn't look up. "You said we were starting over, remember? I didn't know if I believed you last night, but I do now."

"Remember when you said you didn't want to talk about it, and I said alright? Wanna give that a try?"

Carol sighed, and set the book down on the concrete beside her. She tried to roll her shoulder back, just to see if it would move, and gave an involuntary wince when a shot of pain stabbed, not just through her arm, but her entire right side.

And like the arrows he shot, Daryl was there. "Lemme see." Carol shook her head. "Don't be stubborn." She glared at him, and he had the decency to avert his eyes as he shrugged. "Please. We can't get Beth out if you're hurt."

"I'm fine," Carol insisted even as she gingerly pushed back the fabric of her shirt; her fingers trailed over the bruised skin, and she bit back another wince. Daryl didn't, though, when he saw the discoloration on her collarbone, and raised his hand as it to brush it, then retracted it and took a step back.

"Stupid idea," he mumbled, running a hand through his dirty hair. Carol almost smiled. Man needed a haircut, but so did most of them. Rick was beginning to resemble a caveman.

"We made good time." He shot her a look and she shrugged. "You okay?"

He waved away her concern, as she knew he would. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." She studied him as he paced, but didn't think he was lying. He was limping to the left a bit, or had he been doing that earlier? It had happened on the road, maybe? Or before that, when she'd been…away?

"We should get going." She made to stand, ignoring her body's protests. Daryl raised his hand.

"You need to rest."

"Five minutes more isn't going to do a thing. But it might cost Beth."

His lips twitched. "At least drink some water."

She shook her head, and deliberately kept the grimace off her face. "I can handle the pain. Remember Ed?"

Daryl froze. Mid-turn, he just stood still. Then just as quickly he knelt down and fumbled through his bag, pushing things out of the way and finally getting frustrated and overturning the whole thing. She watched him, wondering what her punishment would be for breaking their rule.

They didn't talk about Ed. Daryl knew. He'd been the only witness to her bashing her husband's brains in with an axe, had seen her covered in his blood, and that told him all he needed to know. They didn't talk about it. It was in the past, and the past was dead. He'd said so last night. We ain't ashes. Those memories, those times, that pain…that was the past. Daryl focused on the here and now. Carol hadn't always, but after Sophia, she'd joined him. She'd understood. Some things were too hard to dwell on. Best let the dead lie. Those were their rules.

"He broke my collarbone once. Not here." She pointed at the developing bruise even though he wasn't look. "The other side."

Daryl stood with the canteen in his hand, kicking aside an arrow that fell when he dumped his bag. He held it out to her. "Here."

Carol looked from him to the water, then reached behind her for the book. "Trade ya."

Daryl growled low in his throat, like a predator warning a hunter to stay away. He shook the water.

They were at an impasse, Daryl with the water sloshing in the canteen and Carol with that book growing heavier by the second. They never looked away from each other, never blinked, and Carol knew there was a good chance neither of them would move until either one collapsed (and, she admitted, it would be her) or a walker attacked. If that happened, he would have to kill it. She was too beat up. He would take care of her, like he was trying to do with his misguided desire to hydrate her. Like she was trying to do for him.

Beneath his long hair, Daryl wasn't scowling, but he certainly wasn't smiling. It was a look she was familiar with, though it hadn't been directed at her in a long, long while. When he'd first glared at her like that, they'd been at Hershel's farm and he'd been angry. Angry at her for not watching Sophia, angry at Sophia for wandering off, angry at Rick for leaving her, angry at himself for not finding her soon enough. He'd been like a kid, angry at the world for things outside his control. He wasn't like that anymore, but as his gaze hardened, Carol wondered if there still might be lines she wasn't supposed to cross. As close as they were, as far as he'd come, maybe he was still a bit angry at the powers that were, and maybe she still wasn't supposed to be a part of that. His past was as off limits as hers. Unwritten rules were still rules.

But, dammit, she had to try.

"I've seen the scars."

"Everyone's seen the scars," he shot back.

He was right. Try as he might, and he certainly did, their group had seen the marks on his back. They'd lived in close quarters for so long – on the farm, on the road, in the prison cells – that it was inevitable that everyone would see everyone else half-dressed (or undressed) at some point.

Daryl was good at hiding it. Years of practice, she assumed, had helped him perfect the art of discretion. He waited until the others were asleep to change, back when they had other clothes to change into. He used the showers at odd hours. No one really paid attention. They'd found a lake once, and it had to have been over one hundred degrees that day, and no one thought twice about jumping in after Rick made sure there was nothing dead (or undead) in it. Daryl hadn't joined them, even though she could see he wanted to. Rick called out to him, and Glenn, but they both knew why he wasn't jumping in. He'd said someone needed to keep watch and so he sat there, drenched in sweat, smiling when Carl splashed him but steadfastly determined to remain fully clothed, perched on his look-out rock.

But even he slipped up sometimes. There were nights when he was too exhausted to wait until the others fell asleep to change, or that time in the prison when he and Michonne had come back from a run covered in cow shit and they'd both stripped down to their underwear and disposed of their soiled clothes outside. Everyone had seen them, at one point or another.

When Daryl knew they were visible, he kept his gaze stubbornly on the floor. When he looked up, heaven help whoever made eye contact with him. He almost challenged someone to say something, but to her knowledge, no one ever did. Some rules weren't just for the two of them.

Carol watched them watch him. She'd seen Carl tilt his head, only to be shushed by Lori. She'd seen Maggie squint, as if not quite understanding what it was she saw written all over his back, then look away. Glenn winced every time. Dale had come close to saying something once, she thought, but changed his mind. Andrea, Hershel, hell, even the newcomers… They'd all seen them, despite his best efforts.

Carol saw them on the farm. He'd taken an arrow to the side, and a bullet to his head, but those only added to the plethora of other scars littering his body. She hadn't said anything then, or any day since. But she was now.

"You're right. And nobody cares," she told him. He narrowed his eyes at her and she shook her head. "No one has ever said anything to you, have they? Has anyone ever looked at you any differently than they did?"

"You mean like you're looking at me right now?" He accused her.

She had once been a mother, had once loved a man named Ed Peletier before everything fell apart. That woman had died a long time ago, but for half a second, she seemed to creep out of her grave and speak softly in Carol's voice, look kindly with Carol's eyes, and reach out and touch Daryl's arm with Carol's hand. "I'm not looking at you any differently than I ever have." She paused. "Alright. Maybe I am."

Daryl shook his head, a humorless laugh escaping his lips, but Carol didn't let him turn. "Maybe I've got a bit more admiration for you now than I did an hour ago. Because I want to move on, and I said I would try, but those were just words. And you…you're doing something. You're doing something, and it's a good thing." She smiled, and took the canteen from him. She took a sip and held the book up one last time. "Take the book. Please."

Daryl held her gaze for a long time.

And he took the book. Wrenched it from her hands, actually, and stuffed it unceremoniously into the bag, along with the various other items he'd thrown onto the ground, before throwing it over his shoulder. "Let's go." She nodded.

As they made their way down the street, he grumbled, "Ain't got no time to sit around reading anyway."

"I didn't even know you could read."

"Stop."

Per usual, I own nothing. This was written for USS Caryl's challenge. The point was to take a scene and "fix it." I liked this part of "Consumed," but was annoyed that the book was never addressed besides a significant look, so I changed that. This is a more refined version of the quick draft I submitted for the blog.

As I was writing this, I really noticed the paradox of the themes - letting go of the past and starting over while acknowledging and dealing with the things that happened. I hope some of that tension came through.